Sassy Wifey: Quickly, grab Phil's baby book...
I'm so proud...I may cry. It's like watching a baby take his first steps. Phil (sniffle, sniffle) has actually performed a chore without having to be told. Yes, it's just *one* chore but it is a start.
And he didn't even brag about it afterwards. I got to find out on my own which wasn't exactly pleasant. Let me paint the picture for you: I walk into our bathroom late at night. Our room is dark, the bathroom is dark. I'm lucky thus far to have made it without breaking a limb. I open the bathroom door and flip the lightswitch on. Holy crap! It was like turning on the lights for a stadium. I think I even heard the buzzing sound. And suddenly everything was illuminated, brightly illuminated. More than usual. My pupils shrunk in fear. My head throbbed.
I had grown accustomed to the light of two bulbs working, but Phil had put two additional ones in, for a total of four lightbulbs brightly shining into my small, teeny, tiny pupils. Now, I don't exactly know what we need to see that clearly in the bathroom...I surely don't want to see every nook and cranny that I missed with the Lysol Wipes but it is nice that he had the initiative (not a word you'll commonly see linked with Phil's name, especially when he's at home) to change the lightbulbs without being told to do so. Seriously, my butt hasn't shined that brightly since the last time I was giving birth. Awesome...like I wanted that illuminated.
On to other news: While the blog-round-table discussion was being held at my house last night to decide on a proper alias for my older sister (Bisquick), my father pointed out that he wanted to know what his alias was. I said it was "Dad." He didn't like it. I don't blame him, I'm not entirely fond of being known as "Mom" either. So I've decided on Jiminy Cricket. Because he is, I'm not shitting you. He is like that freakin' cricket in Pinocchio. He sits on my shoulder or in my brain and constantly dictates his opinion on how I should handle business. I swear I hear my dad's voice in my head during times of crisis or depression. It's really cool because he was/is a good father so the advice is usually sound and doesn't require me to use any anti-psychotics to silence him.
He knows he's Jiminy Cricket. I've told him this before. He even has a stuffed Jiminy as well as a little plastic figurine. He's proud of his cricket status. So that's Pop's alias. When I'm hurried or when Pebbles is furiously trying to rip the keyboard from my hands, I'll just refer to him as "JC" as in "Jesus Christ" as in "Our personal Lord and Savior" which I think Dad would prefer anyway.
As for last night's post:
I'm feeling a little bad about the reference to Bisquick's children as "hollering drunks at last call." Er.....shoot, I don't have aliases for them. We'll call them Waffle, Flapjack, Muffin and Dumpling. Anyway, Waffle, Flapjack, Muffin and Dumpling are sweet kids and don't abuse alcohol at all. They are loving, albeit LOUD, children.
Ta-ta!
And he didn't even brag about it afterwards. I got to find out on my own which wasn't exactly pleasant. Let me paint the picture for you: I walk into our bathroom late at night. Our room is dark, the bathroom is dark. I'm lucky thus far to have made it without breaking a limb. I open the bathroom door and flip the lightswitch on. Holy crap! It was like turning on the lights for a stadium. I think I even heard the buzzing sound. And suddenly everything was illuminated, brightly illuminated. More than usual. My pupils shrunk in fear. My head throbbed.
I had grown accustomed to the light of two bulbs working, but Phil had put two additional ones in, for a total of four lightbulbs brightly shining into my small, teeny, tiny pupils. Now, I don't exactly know what we need to see that clearly in the bathroom...I surely don't want to see every nook and cranny that I missed with the Lysol Wipes but it is nice that he had the initiative (not a word you'll commonly see linked with Phil's name, especially when he's at home) to change the lightbulbs without being told to do so. Seriously, my butt hasn't shined that brightly since the last time I was giving birth. Awesome...like I wanted that illuminated.
On to other news: While the blog-round-table discussion was being held at my house last night to decide on a proper alias for my older sister (Bisquick), my father pointed out that he wanted to know what his alias was. I said it was "Dad." He didn't like it. I don't blame him, I'm not entirely fond of being known as "Mom" either. So I've decided on Jiminy Cricket. Because he is, I'm not shitting you. He is like that freakin' cricket in Pinocchio. He sits on my shoulder or in my brain and constantly dictates his opinion on how I should handle business. I swear I hear my dad's voice in my head during times of crisis or depression. It's really cool because he was/is a good father so the advice is usually sound and doesn't require me to use any anti-psychotics to silence him.
He knows he's Jiminy Cricket. I've told him this before. He even has a stuffed Jiminy as well as a little plastic figurine. He's proud of his cricket status. So that's Pop's alias. When I'm hurried or when Pebbles is furiously trying to rip the keyboard from my hands, I'll just refer to him as "JC" as in "Jesus Christ" as in "Our personal Lord and Savior" which I think Dad would prefer anyway.
As for last night's post:
I'm feeling a little bad about the reference to Bisquick's children as "hollering drunks at last call." Er.....shoot, I don't have aliases for them. We'll call them Waffle, Flapjack, Muffin and Dumpling. Anyway, Waffle, Flapjack, Muffin and Dumpling are sweet kids and don't abuse alcohol at all. They are loving, albeit LOUD, children.
Ta-ta!
Labels: sassy wifey
posted by Jen Spedowfski-Martin at
3:36 PM
2 Comments:
drunk kids are quiet kids, and with all that bathroom light they could totally puke in the toilet with out missing. just a thought.
Oh so true Mrs. Strizzay.....so true. Didn't think of that...hmmm.
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